The Keeper

THE KEEPER

Cape Cod, 1767

“Sounds like a Nor’easter is heading this way, Milo. Are ye ready? Did ye need more oil for the lamp?” The proprietor of the dry goods store located about a mile from Milo’s lighthouse asked as he rang up the old man.

Milo Norris had just celebrated his sixtieth year on this earth yesterday, quietly, surrounded by the sound of the ocean’s surf and the spray of the sea air as it drifted through one of the windows of his tiny kitchen. The man in question simply nodded, showed the glass container of oil, and then gathered his purchases.

The proprietor continued, saying, “Aye, they believe it will be almost as bad as the one that hit us fifty years ago exactly, the one that took out that ship, The Whydah Galley, captained by Sam Bellamy. Some folks say it was the devil taking his due, as the lad went on account, becoming a pirate and earning the moniker Black Sam. Others, well,” he trailed off, as if hesitant to speak the next part. “Well, they say they could hear Sam praying to God and crying for his beloved Maria. Would anyone who was in league with Old Scratch have been able to speak prayers?”

Milo sighed, knowing the stories that had evolved from that night. His own father had been aboard that ship when it went down, Milo only ten years old at the time, watching from the beach with the rest of the villagers after the alarm had been raised. No one could help, and they could all only watch, most stricken with grief at the lost lives. One beautiful girl had sobbed uncontrollably, wailing that her “Sam” was supposed to return to her.

Milo knew Sam and his crew were supposed to have returned at least a year before, but no one knew why he had delayed. He had watched the girl walk along the coast every morning and every night, scanning the horizon. She was not the only one, often joined by wives of the men Sam had taken with him on his journey, promising to return with wealth and riches beyond compare to help their poor village.

Milo’s father, Thomas, had joined in an effort to bring comfort and prosperity to their family. No longer would they have to toil in the soil, trying to coerce things to grow in the harsh New England ground. His mother, Lucinda, tried to be brave and keep a happy face, but it was often Milo would hear her quietly sobbing near him on her sleeping pallet in their tiny home. It all seemed so long ago, yet sometimes it felt as if it had only happened yesterday.

Shaking his head, Milo nodded to the proprietor, who then turned to help another customer. People were coming out to stock up on oil, lantern supplies, and any goods that would hold them over until the storm had passed.

Stepping out onto the boardwalk, he looked up at the clouds and gauged that the storm was still a few hours out, so he had time to complete his errands before he was needed back at work. There was a slight misting rain now, and he shivered as some of it ran down his neck, leaving a cold, slithering trail along his back.

Once he reached the lighthouse, he made sure he locked the door, then rubbed his knee as he gazed up at the many flights of stairs encircling the round walls, winding their way up to the light at the top and to his living area. Every journey starts the same: one foot in front of the other, me dad would have said, he thought.

Several minutes later, he finally reached the top and the trapdoor leading onto the main deck area containing the oil-burning light. He pulled down the steps, then climbed them, folding them up again as he shut the trapdoor. Walking around, he lit all the small oil lamps lining the walls of his little kitchen and pallet bed areas and put away his goods.

The next half hour was spent on a routine he had perfected over all his years of service to this lighthouse. He had built this entire structure himself with occasional help from townspeople when he came of age. His mother had passed away from grief a few years after that storm took his father from them, leaving him to tend to the meager farm. He had sworn that no other family should lose their loved ones to the reefs and shoals that lurked under the murky waters of the bay as he had.

The labor of love took years, and he never took a wife, never expressed an interest in any of the young ladies who came by his job site. They were usually warned away from him, anyway, as he was “touched in the head” and “likely to die young”, they were told.

Once his chores were done, he stood in front of the crown glass, which served as windows. Rain had begun to fall now, the wind rising, driving it harder against the windowpane. Every night he spoke the same silent prayer, “Father, I miss ye, and wish ye could have come home safely, but I will make sure none join ye.”

He would then light the oil lamp, crack the top of one of the windowpanes so the smoke would escape safely, and begin his watch. Every now and again, he would adjust the metal reflector behind the giant oil lamp panes to shine it on the areas the ships would need to avoid.

The wind began to howl outside as it rushed past the lighthouse, briny salt air heavy with moisture and the smell of lightning. This night felt different, and he ached in most of his old joints. Years of climbing those stairs and the labor needed for upkeep had taken their toll on him.

An hour into his watch, he saw the dancing lights of a ship far out in the bay, near the area where the Whydah had sailed on its last voyage and gone down. Standing up, he walked closer to the window, then took out his spyglass to try and get a better look.

At first, things were blurry in the rain and spray, but finally, he could see the name on the ship. He gasped softly, then wiped his eyes before returning to his view. There was no doubt that that was the ship’s bell in his viewfinder, and it clearly read THE WHYDAH GALLEY.

How did a ship that had gone down fifty years ago suddenly appear again? He raised the glass to his eye again, watching as the crew aboard the ship manned the rigging and tried to keep her from hitting the reefs where she had already perished once. He could almost hear the shouting, the same as the night he lost his father.

Shock held him in place at first, but then he did what he wished he could have done so many decades ago: he turned the light towards the reefs and showed the ship the safe path out. Suddenly, the wind that had whipped the ship into the bay turned and pushed the ship away again.

Milo could hear shouts of celebration from the crew as it maneuvered its way out of the bay and back toward the dock that had been its original destination. As the rain died down, Milo noticed some odd things about the ship. The sails were ragged and torn, and the masts were broken. The men he could see were merely shapes; no discernible features could be made out from where he stood, yet he knew each face from his memory.

He lowered the spyglass slowly, shaking his head at what he was seeing, unable to believe the possibility of a ghost ship. As he continued to watch, it sailed out of the bay, into the night, and the winds outside the lighthouse calmed down. Milo held out a shaking hand and grabbed his chair, pulled it closer to him, then lowered himself slowly into it, his heart pounding.

Taking out a handkerchief from his back pocket, he wiped his brow, still shaking his head. Suddenly, he was startled by a hand on his shoulder, as he should have been completely alone in that lighthouse. Jerking his head up, he stared into his father’s face, as young as it was when he left with Sam.

Thomas stared down at him with kindness in his eyes and told him, “My son, ye did well all these years. Ye brought light to the darkness, ensuring no one had to go through what ye did, and countless families are thankful because of the work ye have done. It is time to rest now. Come and join us as I know ye longed to do as a boy, and we await ye.”

Milo could only stare, unable to comprehend what his father was telling him. Leave? Who would watch the light and ensure it never went out?

Thomas turned and looked at the lamp illuminating the whole top deck. “Do not fear the loss of this light as it will burn ever more, but your work is done, my child.” He turned back to Milo and, once again, held out his hand. “Come.”

Slowly, Milo lifted his hand to take his father’s hand and was finally able to join the crew he longed for ever since that fateful night so long ago.

###

The next morning, the proprietor used his key, which he kept as an emergency safeguard, to unlock the lighthouse door when he did not see Milo on his usual rounds. He climbed up the winding staircase and entered the top through the trapdoor.

The light was still burning, and everything seemed as it should be, yet there was no sign of the old lighthouse keeper. The proprietor walked around the huge lamp and saw the chair by the window. Moving closer, he could see Milo asleep in it.

Shaking his head and chuckling, he went to pat Milo on the arm, thinking he was merely tired, as Milo was older and the life he led was very hard on the body. However, Milo did not respond. Worried now, the proprietor shook him, then placed his fingers on Milo’s neck, but found no pulse.

Stepping back, he made the sign of the cross and then noticed something interesting. Milo was smiling, which was a shock, as it was the first time the proprietor had ever seen a smile on the man’s face. Saying a prayer for comfort and wishing him well on his journey to the Lord, the proprietor turned to douse the lamp; however, the wick would not go out, no matter what he tried. The proprietor simply laid the snuffer stick aside, taking it as a sign from God that the light was still needed, and left.

Outside, a rainbow arched across the bay, and a ship’s bell could be heard faintly in the distance.